AS SOON AS WE DISEMBARKED, Paul pulled me aside.
PAUL: I can take you to see your cousin Gasim Gam.
ME: That would be great.
After Oder had left for the SPLA front line, Gasim had moved to the Ethiopian capital, avoiding SPLA fighting duty, possibly taking the same advice Oder had given me: get an education, do not let being a soldier be your highest aspiration in life. Once in Addis Ababa, Gasim had enrolled in school and was now struggling through college.
We found Gasim living in pretty deplorable conditions, even by Sudanese village standards. It was a tiny, congested, unkempt house with poor ventilation. Back in Akobo, the huts were clean and spacious, at least, well ventilated with adequate distance between them, complete with open fields used as playgrounds for children. Where Gasim lived was a congregation of little rooms with limited natural lighting, the general surroundings reeking of poor sanitation.
Upon seeing us at his door that early in the morning, Gasim started oscillating between excitement and despair: happy to see us but regretting that he had nothing to offer us, like breakfast.
I understood how difficult things must have been for him, having had no relatives in Addis Ababa and being dependent on handouts from generous well-wishers. A tiny bed with a worn-out mattress and a reading table were all he had, but whatever Gasim lacked in material things, he made up for in good cheer and a resilient spirit. He never wallowed in self-pity, no matter how dire his circumstances. He was a true southern Sudanese.
PAUL: Gasim, sorry to ambush you so early in the morning. I have brought you guests.
In African culture, receiving guests, including (and especially) unannounced ones, is considered a blessing, a sign that the ancestors have appointed you to be host of your relatives with pride and kindness. From that, more good tidings are to come your way.
GASIM: Oh, my people. You are very much welcome. Look at Ger, all grown up. Ger, how is everyone back home?
ME: Everyone is fine, Gasim, but things are still dire. I’ve left to try to get an education.
Gasim knew that Nyandit had passed away, but we did not dwell on that or on the death of his uncle Keep due to famine. We Sudanese do not dwell on death. If we did, we’d be in a perpetual state of mourning. Instead, we move on with life.
GASIM: As you can see from my example, it’s not going to be easy. But that’s the right decision.
I found the cold in Ethiopia unbearable, and so I asked Gasim for an extra item of clothing.
GASIM: I’m sorry, Ger, but I haven’t received any money lately and have no extra clothing. The only thing I can offer you is that blue T-shirt over there. You can have it if you like it.
The T-shirt was dirty and sticky with lice, but I had no choice. I glanced at Paul before picking it up, then smiled appreciatively at my cousin.
Later that evening, we headed by bus to the Kenyan border. We got off on the Ethiopian side at a small shopping center, where we joined a group of Ethiopians trying to sneak into Kenya. We couldn’t go through the official border point and face the Kenyan and Ethiopian immigration officials since none of us had proper travel documents. The alternate route was through a heavily forested mountainous terrain, but we couldn’t be seen heading through there as a group, because that would make it obvious we were sneaking in. Paul devised another plan.
PAUL: We are going to walk toward the forest one by one. The most we can risk is two people moving together. Once you get there, just keep walking.
We started trickling into the trees at around two p.m. After walking for almost half an hour, we assembled at the foot of a mountain for a quick head count to ensure everyone had made it that far. We had now formed a joint climbing party with the Ethiopians, our fates intertwined. There were no clear footpaths up the mountain, yet it seemed like those leading the pack, Paul and others, had a general sense of the direction we were going. Throughout the climb, monkeys residing in the mountain kept making noises, as if to alert us to their presence.
There was talk within the group that Ethiopian and Somali rebels sometimes took cover in the mountains, and for this reason we tried to walk as quietly as we could. If anyone wanted to pass along a message within the group, they would gesture for everyone to gather around. No shouting was permitted. The Ethiopians journeying with us told us a group of Sudanese escapees had been ambushed and killed in the forest a fortnight earlier.
We got to the mountaintop after dark and rested briefly before starting downhill. I kept looking at Nyangile and Nyakume, wondering how taxing this must be for them. I was tired and thirsty, but this type of journey had become a kind of adventure for me. I had learned never to dwell on the difficulties but always to keep my mind focused on the destination. In that way, immediate suffering faded.
By the time the sun came out, after a number of stopovers and quick naps, we found ourselves on the Kenyan side of the border. I once again felt like I was moving toward my future against all odds. Our first human contact was with Turkana men and women, tall, skinny, and dark, just like the Sudanese. We came to a traditional homestead at the bottom of the mountain, where a man was lying down next to a cattle kraal, resting his head on a tiny three-legged stool. He rose to his feet upon seeing us. Instead of questioning us, he ushered us into his homestead, possibly aware we’d had a long night trekking through the forest.
Paul whispered to us as we went.
PAUL: They are good people. Don’t panic or show any resistance.
There was a language barrier, but somehow the Ethiopians managed to ask the man if he could get us some drinking water. The man shouted something, and a woman came from farther inside the house. She shook our hands, after which she took a traditional pot and vanished for ten or so minutes, returning with water. She then got a plastic jar from one of the mud houses for us to use as a drinking vessel. We each gulped down water before passing the jar on to the next person. Paul made what looked like an attempt to ask for directions. The man spoke and gestured, and Paul seemed to understand. We bid the man and woman farewell and headed toward Walda.
It took us another six hours to get to the refugee camp. That year, drought had killed a lot of livestock—camels, cows, and goats. In Walda there were hundreds of southern Sudanese but also hundreds of thousands of refugees from the Ethiopian civil war. This new life in the camp consisted of us sitting around, scrounging, and squabbling over food or perceived slights. I met Paul’s friend Gatluak Riek, who was, I sensed immediately, someone I could learn from—not only had he received a proper education in Nairobi, but all the girls in the camp said he had the nicest smile they had ever seen. Gatluak Riek further convinced me that I needed to go to America.
As fate would have it, I spotted Lual Nyang, my English-speaking friend from Itang, who’d kept an eye out for me there since I tended to get into fights. Lual had grown a big Afro with a perfect hairline, like the comedian Steve Harvey’s in the 1990s.
As 1993 turned to 1994, we all moved camp to Ifo, in Garissa County, Kenya. This was the first time I’d ever seen so many white people: they were donors or “high-profile” supporters of the UN. Later on, I learned that their mission was to assess the camp in order to build a school and also a treatment center for children, since so many lacked health care and proper diets. We didn’t have any intimate interaction with them because there was tight security, but we just found them fascinating.
Lual and I would venture off into the bushes to squat and pee. That was when we had this exchange:
LUAL: Man, we gotta stick together in this camp. Because any day we could be in America, Canada, or a Scandinavian country like Denmark or Norway.
ME: Maybe we’d grow old there. Sometimes I wonder if that means we won’t ever be able to come home again. If we’ll be stranded in some European country. I’m already homesick. I miss my family.
LUAL: We are going to be okay, Ger.
ME: Nyajuri!
LUAL: Nyajuri!!!
“Nyajuri” means “togetherness under one roof” and signified our brotherhood.
We waited for our destinies to be handed to us, since it seemed all we could do as refugees was wait. We met a boy, Thomas Kutey, who had a huge family and resided in Kenya’s capital, Nairobi, because his father was an educator and a politician. That’s where and how he had learned to speak proper English and Swahili. He had never lived in a refugee camp, but when he came to Ifo for a visit, we somehow clicked and became friends.
Most of the time, Lual and I hung out with a boy named Nhial, whom we called Mini Leg because he was so short, and Mai, a kinky-haired and angry boy who bore the traditional Nuer warrior scars on his face. We played soccer in the dusty field by ourselves, collected firewood, and tried to keep one another laughing while standing in line to receive our UN food rations.
Things got tense when Nhial got a girl pregnant. The girl’s brothers stormed through camp, threatening to beat up anyone who was a friend of Nhial’s. That put a target directly on my back. Not just from them, but also from Paul!
PAUL: YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS, GER? HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN? YOU ARE A BAD INFLUENCE!
I clearly had nothing to do with Nhial and the girl’s actions, but Paul wouldn’t hear it. This created a lot of tension between me and Paul, which we eventually settled as a family, but it left a bad taste in my mouth—one that would build up, like bile, and come roaring back years later.
Despite all that drama, my friends and I continued to meet, play, and speak of America—the dream of having our choice of different pants and shirts to dress in, and speaking English perfectly without any African accents. The word “America” itself became imbued with so many meanings and possibilities, most of them vague, like the remnants of a dream, but all infused with hope. Every week, we hoped to see our names printed on the UNHCR chalkboard, which would signify that we were finally scheduled to leave the camp. And so we waited.